


white christmas

by ghostmachine



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, and it’s gay, it’s a Christmas fic y’all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-07 18:51:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12847323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostmachine/pseuds/ghostmachine
Summary: In the end there is no grand gesture, not a second of it what you had planned. It seems most things with you and Laura refuse to follow rhyme or reason, no matter how you may try. The truth is that you wouldn’t change it for the world.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. So. When I sat down to write this fic, I told myself in no uncertain terms that it would NOT be in second person. Then I wrote the first sentence that came to mind and....here you go. I’m so sorry.
> 
> Also I know Frank Sinatra is referenced, but this was really inspired by Sleeping At Last’s rendition. You can get his whole Christmas album for free over on Noisetrade, check it out if you like soothing Christmas vibes.

In the end there is no grand gesture, not a second of it what you had planned. It seems most things with you and Laura refuse to follow rhyme or reason, no matter how you may try. The truth is that you wouldn’t change it for the world. 

It’s Christmas Eve, or more accurately Christmas Eve evening—night had settled over Toronto early with barely a notice from either of you. You’d spent the morning lounging in pajamas and by mid-afternoon Laura had forced you into a garish sweater, donning one of her own with more than a few cocoa stains.

“It’s tradition, Carm! Dad and I always wear our sweaters on Christmas Eve.” You can tell she’s a bit forlorn not to be spending the holiday with her father. You’d visited Sherman at Thanksgiving, and with trembling hands you had pulled him aside, told him of your plans, and he had graciously given you his blessing. 

Only a few weeks earlier you had surprised her with tickets to Paris for her birthday, as you’d both talked for years about spending Christmas in one of your favorite cities. She’d squealed and thanked you for days on end, making you watch Home Alone at least five times and planning your itinerary in hopes of seeing some of the sights she missed the last time you’d visited, “you know, when someone kept me in bed for practically the whole week! I didn’t even get to see The Louvre.”

She’s practically been packed for weeks, while you, on the other hand, had only haphazardly throw a few outfits and sundries into a suitcase the night before, much to her chagrin. 

“I’ll never understand,” she’d said, “how we are like, total opposites. And yet…” she started, shaking her head and walking into the kitchen. And yet, and yet, and yet. 

All these little moments have lead you to Christmas eve night, the two of you leaving for your flight within the hour but savoring the time you have left in your home. Laura has the lights low, coming down from a Christmas cookie sugar high, and what started as waltzing has turned into a half-hearted attempt at slow-dancing in the middle of your living room. 

Laura smells like gingerbread and vanilla when you hold her in your arms, like everything sweet. You breathe in slow and deep, without the fear of losing yourself—those days long gone again. She sways and you recall each and every time you’ve danced: in your tiny dorm room at Silas, both of you at odds and falling in love; in the streets of the Village when you thought no one was looking; in a mansion full of your ghosts, your world about to fall apart again, but Laura beside you always; and in this same living room, the walls barren and the space unfurnished, a lifetime of possibilities welling up inside of you and this girl you love. 

You’d done it all together and somehow you’re here, at peace, fake Christmas tree in the corner surrounded by balsam candles, Laura’s trick to make apartment safety codes a little more merry and bright. She’d set up a fake fireplace on her laptop and you’d laughed, but you felt a little warmer when she stood in front of it, pretending to thaw her fingers. 

And Laura is humming in tune to a Christmas collection playing in the background—a dusty record from the 60s she’d found for you, “to remind you of the good old days!” You’re always amazed at the attempts she makes to better understand you and the decades you wear like scars under your skin. She’s pulled them, one by one, to the surface, and polished off the best parts, revealing an optimism you had never before considered. 

It’s when Sinatra’s White Christmas croons from the record player in the corner that she begins to sing along, her voice innocent and gentle. You stroke a hand through her hair and you listen. You listen to the love of your life, this girl who flipped your world upside down not so many years ago. Here in the tiny world you’ve built together, you hear, as you do more and more often these days, the beckoning of the future, the lull of the past little more than white noise in your ears. And you feel her pressed against you, hips rocking in time with the music, see her hair glowing with the blues and reds of the lights on the tree. You listen to the sound of your plans going out the window, eternity dripping from your lips. 

Before you know it you’re gripping her waist tighter, pulling her in closer and brushing her hair from her ear.

“Hey Laura?” you ask, and it’s not timid like you expected; it is assured, measured, little more than a whisper but confident in its own right.

“Yeah?” she murmurs back, her head buried in your neck. You feel her breath on you and you shiver, threading your fingers in her hair. And before you lose your nerve you say it. 

“Will you marry me?”

Laura’s swaying stops and she pulls back, her hands gripping your forearms. She eyes you with a look you’ve seen on her face a thousand times: a mixture of curiosity, determination, and a sense of blind adventure. But there’s something else this time, something softer you could spend a hundred lifetimes trying to describe. The question hangs in the air between you and your hands start to shake a little, the desire to drop her gaze nearly overwhelming. 

You start to panic and so you stutter. 

“I—“ you start, “I know I didn’t get down on one knee or, or give you a ring—I mean, I have a ring, it’s in the bedroom, but I planned to do this in Paris, somewhere much more romantic and—“

“Yes.”

You’re not sure you heard her right, all your explanations and insecurities filling your head with doubt. But she squeezes your arms, smiles brighter than you think you’ve ever seen, brings herself so close to you that you forget to breathe for a moment. And then she’s kissing your cheeks, your nose, your lips, unhurried and with unwavering affection. 

“Carmilla, yes,” she breathes. It’s rare that she uses your full name and it leaves you speechless. Before you can think of a response she’s kissing you fully, and you love her with an ache in your chest, with the echo of a once-beating heart, with everything. She kisses you and you kiss her back, just like you have a thousand times before, just like you will as long as she lives. 

For a moment the two of you are suspended there, the song in the corner changed and both of you along with it. You’re grinning nearly too big to kiss and Laura start to laugh, a light, beautiful little sound, and you can’t help but laugh along with her because who would’ve thought that a depraved, 338 year old vampire would’ve even had a shot at being this happy?

“I believe you said something about a ring?” she asks with only a slight hint of mocking you. You nod and take her by the hand, lead her to your bedroom where she sits on the bed. You glance at her with a smirk before pulling a small, black box from one of your many, many black socks, and she makes a noise of protest that tells you she can’t believe she, the investigator of this household, didn’t find it on her own. 

“Not very sneaky there, Carm,” she teases. 

“Maybe not, sweetheart, but it does seemed to have worked.” 

You seat yourself next to her and she takes your hand, squeezing tightly. 

“Let me see!” 

Your hands are still tremoring slightly but you open the box to show her and she gasps. 

“Carm…” 

It’s not an antique—the Karnstein trust may still be intact, but you’d lost the possessions of your family members in the same moment you lost your life. You’d never darkened your parents’ doorstep, afraid to share your burden, and you’d watched from afar as their treasures, accumulated over a lifetime, were peddled off at an estate sale after their deaths. You have nothing to hold onto from that time but it’s just as well. You want to make new memories with Laura, find new treasures to share with her. This ring you had found after weeks of looking, catching your eye in the window of an off-the-beaten-path Toronto shop. When you found out it was already Laura’s size, you bought it without asking the price. 

You pull the ring from where it’s nestled in satin and reach for her hand, slipping it easily onto her finger. She brings the ring to eye level and stares, a simple but formidable diamond placed atop a slim, golden band, and you hope to God it’s enough, though you know nothing could ever be as good as she deserves. 

“Carm,” she says slowly, “it’s perfect.” She slings an arm around your neck, leans her head on your shoulder. “But this must have cost, like, a bazillion dollars! You really shouldn’t have.” 

“Anything for you, cupcake. Can’t have you on air with some shitty engagement ring, can we?” 

She hums happily, kissing your neck and reaching to twirl the ends of your hair. Then suddenly she pulls back as if she’s just thought of something, pulling her phone from her back pocket. 

“Oh my gosh, Carm, I have to tell my dad! And Mel, and Laf and Perry, and, and—”

You chuckle. She is Laura always; you wonder how many hours it will take for her to tell her followers. You give her two. 

“Woah, slow down there, creampuff. We’ve been engaged for all of three minutes. They can wait a little longer. Besides,” you say, glancing at the alarm clock beside your bed, “we should probably get going if we want to make that flight.” 

And so you do, gathering up the last of your things as Laura sits and takes selfies with her ring. You call the cab and toss her her heavy coat, her hat and gloves (which she refuses to put on, lest she stop admiring the new addition to her left hand). You blow out candles and turn off the tree, leave your little apartment behind. The two of you venture out into the cold of Christmas Eve, hands clutched together all the way. 

.

You wait in the terminal for your flight, a red eye to arrive on Christmas Day. Laura is off getting you both water and snacks and calling her father, which you imagine might take a while. You check your phone to pass the time and see that Laura has tagged you in an Instagram post. It’s a selfie she’d forced you into when you’d gotten to your gate, your usual scowl missing and your eyes closed as she presses a kiss to your cheek, her ring held up proudly. 

laura2theletter: The love of my life @heycarmilla asked me to marry her tonight, and of course I said YES! We’re off to Paris to celebrate. Merry almost Christmas from the future Mrs. and Mrs. Grumpy Cat!

You’re not sure how long you spend looking at it, but eventually her voice calls you out; she stands above you and says your name. 

“Carm, you ready to go? Our zone is boarding.” 

And later, just after takeoff, she pulls a blanket big enough for two from her carry-on, spreads it across your lap, and nuzzles her head in the crook of your neck. 

“Love you, baby,” she says and you shut the window, press a kiss to her head, and let the sounds of the engine and the rhythm of her breath soothe you into sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be a oneshot, but I couldn’t leave it alone. Have some pointless fluff with an upgraded M rating.

The sleeping girl on your shoulder stirs as you squint into the morning sunlight. Laura sighs and settles in, still a little jetlagged as you make your way to the outskirts of the city. 

The past 48 hours have been some sort of dream; Laura tugging you around Paris, camera in hand, Nutella perpetually clinging to her lips from too many crêpes, a diamond ring on her finger. The sun creased bright over Paris as she took your hand on the Rue Rivoli, the finest drinking chocolate money can buy burning its way down her throat. 

It had been a white Christmas, a dusting of snow covering the courtyard outside the Louvre as Laura weaved her way through the statues. And you had kissed her in secret as the snow came down slowly, flakes sticking gently to her eyelashes. You and her, whispering little secrets to each other outside of Notre Dame—you’re not sure anyone else existed. 

The spell is only slightly broken as you make your way now to Versailles, coffee in one hand and Laura’s fingers wrapped around the other. The train’s collective breathing fogs the window, obscuring the world in transit. It’s 10 am and the car is filled with the sleepy murmurs of post-Christmas haze. You close your eyes for a moment, and then you arrive. 

.

“I mean, how can one family be that opulent? No wonder they got their heads chopped off. I think I’m going to be dreaming in gold tonight.” 

“Yeah, well, that’s what you get when an absolute monarchy wants to assert its power.” She rolls her eyes and you follow her lazily to the boulangerie just around the corner from your hotel. You think you see the young cashier shake his head in the corner and you can’t really blame him—the two of you had been in at least four times since you arrived, Laura’s appetite for fresh baked baguettes bottomless. 

Versailles had gone much better than you’d expected; nearly 150 years after you and Ell had danced in the mirrored hall, ran wild through the gardens, you’d felt at peace, no longer afraid to hold the past in your hands and then let it go. A trick of the light more than once when the back of Laura’s head looked so much like her, but nothing more than the ghost of a memory when Laura turned to meet you with a smile. 

You’re torn from your reverie by the sound of your name, Laura’s eyes looking sleepy as you make your way back to your room for an afternoon catnap. 

.

“You know,” she says, stripping down to a t-shirt and long underwear, “I think I actually prefer Paris in winter. It was just so...sticky when we were here before.” You smile at the memory of summer here with her, drinking iced coffee in an Airbnb with no A/C. 

“Speak for yourself,” you groan, shivering for emphasis. She comes to help you out of your coat, reaching for your beanie and brushing her nose against yours. You yawn and fall like dead weight on your plush bed, hurrying to pull the covers up to your chin. Laura laughs and climbs in next to you, skin on skin under the sheets. 

Her breath falls heavy on your neck and you breathe in the scent that is so distinctly Laura. You sigh when her arm wraps around your waist and you can tell by the way her fingers skim your hip bone that she’s not all that tired anymore. She hums and her hand slips beneath your tanktop, working its way up your stomach. She may not be tired, but you feel yourself hovering between sleep and the dream that she is. Her touch lulls you into bliss, your mind empty except for wanting her. 

Laura’s thumb brushes at the swell of your breast and you turn to find her, your lips meeting lazily, and you feel her smile against you. She pinches your nipple harder than expected and you gasp into her mouth. 

“You’re so easy,” she whispers with glee, and you wish you could argue but when you’re with her it’s true. Your only retort is to moan her name when her tongue finds your neck. She giggles and it’s heaven. 

She pulls you up to peel off your shirt, batting her eyes at you in a way that tells you she knows exactly what she’s doing. It amazes you that after 6 years she could still want you this badly, still love you this much. The cool metal and of her ring brushes your thigh as she pushes at your leggings. 

She looks you over for a moment, straddles you, and your eyes slam shut when she cups your breasts, leaning over you to suck on your earlobe. 

“You’re so pretty, Carm, you know?” 

She makes her way down your body slowly, stopping to suck a nipple into her mouth. You feel lost in this dark hotel room in the middle of the day, halfway around the world, but she is here, and she is kissing at your stomach, and she is telling you she loves you, and you know she has found you out again. 

“Laura,” you breathe when she is finally where you need her, her mouth hot and eager. In only a few moments you’re completely gone, her strong arms wrapped around your thighs. You hear her heart beating fast and you tangle a hand in her hair, pulling hard when you lose yourself in her. 

She works you down for what feels like an eternity before crawling up to your mouth to kiss you. 

Laura laughs, pulling back to look you in the eye. 

“What’s so funny there, sweetheart?”

“Well, I wanted to do that in the Hall of Mirrors, but I figured we’d get kicked out. I’m sure King Louis would’ve gotten a kick out of it, though.”

The two of you lay there, chuckling into the darkness, clutching at each other tighter and tighter. Paris waits for you outside but for now you let her light be the one to guide you. 

.

She eventually coaxes you outside, the two of you bundled in layers of warmth. Her cheeks are stained red from the wind and she grins at you as you follow her down a row of shops. Without warning she yanks you into the nearest store and you’re momentarily blinded—when your eyes adjust to the fluorescent lighting, you find yourself surrounded by diamonds. 

“Laura…” you say, grabbing her hand to keep her from eagerly looking around. Instead she leads you to the counter, wraps her arms around your waist from behind as you gaze down at the engagement rings. 

“Let me know if you see something you like,” she whispers in your ear, and you huff. 

“Cupcake, you know I don’t need anything fancy like this.” But she tells you in a low voice and in no uncertain terms that she wants everyone to know you’re hers, and a shiver runs up your spine. So you browse against your will, and at Laura’s insistence settle on an admittedly beautiful silver band that caught your eye, a few simple diamonds inlaid. 

Laura begins to protest when pull out your credit card, wanting to pay for it herself, but you know it’s more than she brings home in a month. You hand her the card, her first transaction as heir to the Karnstein throne. 

“C’mon, Carm!” she says, pocketing the ring. You realize you’re almost late for the touristy boat tour she had booked and so you walk quickly to the dock a few blocks away. And with the ship in view, the Seine lit up in the dark, the cold whipping at your face, she drops to one knee and looks at you like something immaculate, asks you for forever like it’s not already hers. And at your “of course, you dork” she’s up and kissing you, her hand wrapping around your neck to pull you closer. 

You board the boat feeling 23 years old, a new eternity awaiting you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! Much love.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments much appreciated! Happy holidays pals!


End file.
